Seven Days in June(32)

“…and I see lushly ominous visuals with erotic undertones—you get me?” Dani had been raised in East Harlem, and her voice had sumptuous Nuyorican flavor.

“Like Bram Stoker’s Dracula!” gasped Eva.

Drunk on creative synergy, Dani raised her hands to the roof, where a human-head-shaped chandelier hovered. “We’re kindred, you and me.”

“Literally.” Sidney delivered “literally” the same way she would’ve said, Sorry for your loss. She’d attended LA schools populated by Ritchies and Joneses, and now she had a deadpan vocal-fry pitch that never varied. The biracial daughter of an Earth, Wind & Fire guitarist and a sitcom actress, she was quite connected—and a lot savvier than she let on. At twenty-seven, she’d already produced two Netflix documentaries.

Sidney was desperate to produce a feature film. Dani was desperate to prove she wasn’t a one-hit wonder. And Eva was just desperate.

“Dani, I saw The Lady Came to Play twice,” said Eva. “What inspired the invisible lover?”

“I made love to a ghost,” whispered Dani. “I was vacationing at this bizarre ancient hotel in Istanbul. One night, a spirit whooshed under my blankets, and we had mystical intercourse. Ghostly hands all over me.”

“Werk.” Sidney had no patience for this budding girl-crush. What about production details? Budgets, locations, talent.

“Who was the ghost?” Eva was wide-eyed.

“Turns out, I was hallucinating from an intense Turkish flu,” laughed Dani. “My own hands were ravishing me!”

Eva giggled. “I’ve lost my touch. Pardon the pun.”

“I like you.” Dani leaned forward, coffee-brown eyes boring into Eva’s. “And I like your ballsy witch. Let’s make magic.”

Eva glanced at Sidney, who gave a deadpan nod.

“Dani Acosta,” announced Eva, “I think you’re the perfect director for Cursed.”

“Saaame,” drawled Sidney, who’d made the decision forty minutes ago. “Let’s talk casting. Newbies? Zendaya? Those Dear White People cuties?”

“I’m thinking actual white people,” said Dani.

“Actual what now?” asked Eva.

“To get real distribution and financing, this film needs white characters.”

“But…they’re Black,” sputtered Eva, suspended between disbelief and confusion.

“They’re a fantasy,” retorted Dani.

“Wakanda’s a fantasy, but it’s in Africa!”

“Wakanda has Marvel power behind it,” Dani reminded her. “Two Black leads will handicap Cursed’s potential. You don’t want a Black film; you want a big film. I see Sebastian as the Spider-Man kid, Tom Holland? And Kendall Jenner playing Gia.”

Eva was aghast. “She can barely play herself. Have you seen her on a runway? It’s like she’s walking the plank!”

She was in a cold-sweat panic. Black people existed and thrived in all spaces, realms, worlds. And Eva wrote Gia and Sebastian so well that readers of all races took them at face value. A triumph in any genre.

Cursed was Eva’s version of protest lit. Whitewashing her characters would erase her career.

“Vampires and witches are already ‘other,’” reasoned Dani. “If they’re also Black, they’re too niche. Imagine finding an audience for a film about a Taiwanese werewolf and fairy.”

“But I’d watch that!” Eva’s phone buzzed on her lap, cutting off her next thought. It was a text from Sidney.

BE SMART. Dani’s our last non-D-list option. We’ll work out kinks later. Say yes.



“Yes,” said Eva, heart sinking. “Kendall. Spider-Man. Genius.”

Minutes later, she was on the subway, bound for Audre’s parent-teacher conference in Brooklyn. Her heart was throbbing in her temples. How had she allowed that meeting to careen so far out of her control? Where was her integrity? Maybe she didn’t have any. Only a sellout would bleach and brighten her fictional babies for a paycheck. No. The very idea was a searing humiliation. Out of self-preservation, Eva banished it to the back of her mind—she couldn’t break down now; there was no time.

At least Audre was at the top of her class. Nothing to worry about there.



And so she walked into Cheshire Prep all easy breezy. Here, if nowhere else, she knew everything was right with the world. She strode the hallways of the sprawling Victorian mansion with the smugness of a woman whose daughter was the queen of seventh grade.

Eva was secretly proud of Audre’s popularity. Audre was a leader in a school full of overachieving, hypercompetitive alphas from two-parent homes with old family money. It took confidence to own that crowd. And Audre did it by being friendly and empathetic and not an asshole.

My golden child, thought Eva, sweeping into Head of School Bridget O’Brien’s office. With a bright smile, she kissed her daughter’s cheek and sat next to her at Bridget’s desk. The office was a nod to Cheshire Prep’s 150-year history, with accents like 1920s club chairs and Edwardian gas lamps.

Bridget herself was also a bit of a throwback. Tall and svelte, the fifty-five-year-old gave off Hitchcock-blonde vibes, with her back-combed platinum bob and belted Burberry dresses. She had two interests: lasering her crow’s-feet and ensuring that Cheshire Prep became NYC’s top private school before she retired in 2021. Thus, she favored students who won titles.